


Sherlollidrop - A Fickle Man's Angel

by Minirose96



Series: Sherlollidrops [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Businessman AU, Car Accident, F/M, Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minirose96/pseuds/Minirose96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billionaire Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant, cold man without a care for anyone but himself. Always, he could be seen with a lovely lady on his arm, but never the same woman twice.</p><p>Until he met the small, unassuming pathologist who, quite ironically, saved his life after a horrendous car accident. Trouble is, he never did catch her name before blacking out from the trauma. </p><p>Now, bright brown eyes and a nervously said ‘Stay with me sir,’ haunt his memories as he uses his resources to find his savior and repay the debt he has to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollidrop - A Fickle Man's Angel

A glass of brandy after a hard day intimidating those lesser than himself was just was Sherlock Holmes needed. An entrepreneur that had risen to the top very quickly, he was a cunning, devious man who used his gained fortune to have anything he wanted. Sex, drugs, material items, if it could be purchased, he had bought it at one point or another. Sometimes, just to prove he could.

And oh, the  _women_. How they flocked to his side, tweeting and pruning like doves to get his attention when they might as well have been awkward little ducklings, quacking and fumbling about. But oh, they were fun, and each of them believed they could make him love them.

_Ha!_

He didn't do love. But if they were willing to give themselves to him, it was all the same to him. He dated, had flings, one night stands, but never for long. As soon as they got hope in their eyes, he threw them aside and plucked another awkward little duckling from the crowd. He had plenty to choose from. A trinket here and there, and they were his. He could play a female's heart like he played his violin, and he could play a female's body even better in bed.

He swirled his glass of brandy, sitting in the backseat of his chauffeured limousine. The driver – oh, what was his name? He'd been employed by Sherlock for three years and he never bothered to learn the man's name - had a stiff back. Well, why shouldn't he? He had to drive while Sherlock's latest lady friend – Veronica? Victoria? It started with a V – was doing delightful things to his neck and slowly working her way down.

He wasn't sure what happened after that.

There was a horn blaring and an awful screeching of tires.

He blacked out. It felt like only a few seconds. Had it been longer?

He was lying down now. How odd. The surface beneath him was hard. The asphalt? When had he gotten outside of the limousine? He groaned, pain shooting through his body when he tried to move. His vision danced, faded in and out of focus for several moments. Something wet coated his hair and forehead. He tried to bring up a hand to wipe it away. Another dose of pain shot up his arm, and he let out a groan.

"Holy shit, he's alive!"

Who said that? What's going on?

"Get out of the way, I can help! I'm a pathologist!"

Another voice. A woman's.

Pathologist. Why would one of those help him? Didn't they work with dead people? Was he dead? God, he hoped not. If so, being dead sucked.

Something pressed against his forehead roughly. He winced, and tried to work away from it.

A face came into view. Or, he thought it was a face. It had eyes. He couldn't make out much else. Just lovely brown eyes, concerned.

"You're bleeding heavily sir… keep it compressed. Don't move…. Stay with me, sir…"

Her voice faded in and out of focus. His vision blurred around the edges.

But he picked up on her tone. Was she… worried? For him? Why? What had he ever done for her? For anyone?

That wasn't right. He should… he should…

His thoughts were hard to grab and even harder to hold onto once he had them. They added in and out of focus, dancing away from him and coming back to tease him with their presence.

"Stay awake sir, stay with me,"

Her voice, sweet, kind, and worried, was the last thing he heard before his entire world faded to black.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

A repetitive beeping sound woke him next. His eyelids felt heavy as he opened them. He had to shut them again, the whitewashed walls too bright and sterile, the light burning his eyes.

He tried to raise his arms to cover his eyes. One of them hurt, and on the other, he felt a resistance.

Slowly, his eyes in slits, he looked at both of them. His left was bandaged heavily from hand to upper arm. No, it was a hard cast. Broken then. The other had an IV, which led to a pole beside the bed with a bag filled with a clear liquid. He watched for a few dizzy moments as it dripped into the plastic tubing. He wondered what it was. Probably a painkiller. It wasn't helping his headache all that much though.

He fumbled for the nurse call button, which had thankfully been placed by his good hand.

An older woman answered the call. She was about fifty, with graying blonde hair and a tired but merry expression. "It's good to see you awake, Mr. Holmes. Do you remember what happened?"

"No." His voice sounded croaky and weak. Now that he cared to pay attention, it also felt dry. He cleared his throat and repeated the word again.

She nodded. "Ah, well, not too much of a surprise I suppose. You hit your head pretty hard. Got a concussion from it. You also have several cuts and bruises, but the only thing broken was your arm. Angels were watching over you, Mr. Holmes."

Angels. A pair of beautiful bright brown eyes floated in and out of his vision. No. Not angels. Just one.

"What happened?" he asked softly. It was the only volume he seemed capable of reaching.

"A car accident.  _Someone_  wasn't wearing their seatbelt." She gave him an accusing look. He cast his eyes down and away as she continued, "Another car swerved into your lane, and you and your friend in the back were thrown from the vehicle during the collision."

 _Vanessa._ The name came to him. Ah. He knew it started with a V. He cleared his throat again. "How is she? And my driver?"

The nurse –  _Oh, Betty, her ID tag read –_ wore a small frown.

"Your driver's fine. After an examination, he was allowed to leave. He was wearing his seatbelt, after all." Again with the mother hen tone. When was the last time he spoke to his Mum? He should give her a call.

"And the other?" he asked.

"She's… not as well, I'm afraid," Betty said after a moment of pause, probably deciding whether or not she should tell him. "She's in ICU right now. But the doctor's think she'll pull through all right. You were all extremely lucky."

Sherlock nodded his head slightly. After several moments of silence, Betty made to leave the room, a muttered, "I'll fetch the doctor," on her lips, but he stopped her again.

"Ma'am, there was a woman – she saved my life, I believe. A pathologist. Is there any word of her?"

Better paused at the doorway and shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. I wasn't at the scene. I'm sure she's fine, and continued on her merry way."

She smiled as she left.

Sherlock frowned. Why did she smile? His mind was still muddled.

Brown eyes.

He drifted off again, exhausted, and absolutely willing to let the drug lull him back to sleep.

… … … … … … … …

For a week, he was held and monitored. They wanted to make sure there was no permanent damage. His arm was showing signs of healing properly. Though he still couldn't remember very much about the accident, he was told that was usual for people with head injuries. He wouldn't be able to use his left arm for several months and would need muscle therapy when it was out of the cast, but it would heal. He would heal.

Vanessa was still in a medicated coma as she recovered. He later found out that she'd sustained, aside from the head injury, several lacerations, a broken femur, and a fractured right wrist.

His driver was waiting for him outside when he was finally released. Sherlock could see a few bandages on his fingers, and one on his cheek. He wore a nervous expression.

"I'm so sorry sir, I should have watched the road better and –"

Sherlock cut him off with a raised hand. "It's all right. I've been informed that it wasn't your fault. You're a good man, a good driver." He cleared his throat. "What's your name?"

The driver seemed a bit in shock, as if he'd expected a scolding. Well, to be fair, Sherlock would have scolded him before. Now… it felt stupid. He came out with, "Bill, sir. Bill Wiggins."

Sherlock nodded. "Wiggins." He smiled. "You've been driving me around for several years now. You've got kids, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir. This job's been awful good to me in supporting them."

He made a note of that, and gave another nod. "Thank you. I'd like to go home now. It's been a long week."

"Of course sir!" Wiggins opened the door for him, and he got in. He made damn sure to have his seat buckle on before Wiggins started the car, the old nurse's words ringing in his mind.

… … … … … … … … …

He sent Wiggins home early after being dropped off at his home. Entering, he was greeted by silence. It was so… stifling. Yes, that was the word for his home, though before, he'd never have called it that. He flicked on the light and made his way through the hall to his living room. He passed the kitchen on his way. His eyes were drawn to the quaint, minimal kitchen. He didn't cook often, preferring to dine out. It felt… not like a home. More like a display.

His living room, with its black leather furnishings and dark mahogany tables and stands and a flat screen television on the wall and fireplace that was never actually used, felt the same. As if it was pulled from a magazine.

He sat down on the couch and tried to ignore the feeling of not belonging. It would go away once he settled, he was certain. He grabbed the remote, and turned on the television. He flicked through the channels for several minutes. Nothing enticed him.

An hour of nothing, and he turned it off. He glanced around. Why did he live here? He felt no attachment to this house. Shouldn't a homecoming feel more like home?

What was home?

A pair of welcoming brown eyes whispered through his mind.

He shook his head, refusing to dwell on those eyes. Her eyes. He'd asked several people at the hospital. None had known who he was talking about. All he had was 'Pathologist' and those brown eyes.

He got up, took a shower – made a bit more complicated thanks to the cast he had to carefully wrap up before hand – and got dressed for bed – again, made more complicated thanks to the cast.

He couldn't have his usual glass of brandy to put him to sleep thanks to his medications, but he found himself lying in bed and dozing anyway.

… … … … … … … … … …

_"_ _Stay with me Sir."_

Sherlock woke up, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. When it was. That same dream, nearly every night. He always woke up to those words.

It was months since the accident. His arm was out of the cast, just barely. It felt weak. He was working on it, doing simple weights and arm exercises to build up the muscle again.

Things had changed, so much.

People thought he was mad when he gave half of the profits of his company to charity. They questioned why he sold his large estate to rent a small flat in central London, above a sandwich shop. They wanted to know where his lovely lady friends were, why he'd given raises to half his staff, and why he was talking to his parents and brother again, despite the public falling out a few years past.

Most importantly though, they wanted to know why he was so obsessed with a set of brown eyes that he had to find.

Two months after the accident, he'd come forth on a local television channel and on the radio, searching for her. The woman who had saved his life at the accident. Without her emergency care, he would have died. He still had a scar on his forehead, though most of it was hidden in his hair.

He'd gotten responses. Thousands of them in fact. Women who wanted his gratitude and his affection – it was common knowledge that he was apparently besotted by his savior. He wasn't. Truly. He just wanted to help her how he could. Everyone needed something. Everyone wanted something. She'd given him his life, another chance. He just wanted to return the favor.

Perhaps he  _was_  mad. People wondered if he'd made everything up. He wondered if they were right some days. But surely it couldn't be all in his head. Not when it played so vividly in his mind. Not when her eyes were so clear in his memories, even as everything else faded.

Maybe he  _was_  obsessed. He'd had several people tell him to go to therapy and have a mental evaluation. Honestly though, he was fine. Hell, they couldn't even get him out of the CEO position because even though he'd donated so much, he'd also improved revenue drastically since the accident. He was no threat to anyone. Except himself, perhaps.

"Sherlock, that man you hired is here to see you."

His head rose as he heard his landlady's voice. He looked down at himself, still lying in bed and in his pajamas. He sighed rose from his comfortable position to make himself presentable. "Invite him in please, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be out in a moment."

He dressed quickly in one of his impeccable suits, black with a light blue button up, left undone at the top two buttons.

He joined the man, Arthur Doyle, who was already waiting for him in the living room. Though Mrs. Hudson had taken the liberty of making tea -  _not the housekeeper my arse_ , he thought with a soft smile - neither he nor the man in front of him made themselves a cup.

He'd hired him a month previously to find her. A private investigator, one of the best in the field, and he needed the best since all he had to give the man was that she had brown eyes, was a pathologist, and most likely lived and worked in London, based on the scene of the accident and probability.

He was also the only private investigator who even agreed to try.

Sherlock sat down and made himself comfortable before waving his hand at Mr. Doyle to speak so they could avoid all the how-do-you-do nonsense. He was pleased when he discovered that Doyle didn't care for it either.

Mr. Doyle cleared his throat. "I couldn't find a brown eyed pathologist in London, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock didn't let his disappointment show. He knew he was giving the man impossible odds. But he did frown, seeing the man's minute twitch of his lips in amusement as he pulled out a file.

"However, I did find a Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar, working in the morgue at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital."

Mr. Doyle opened the file and laid out its contents on the table. Sherlock had told him not to delve too deeply should he find her, but there were a few key pieces here; a copy of her work identification, her work schedule, a phone number and email to contact her with. Not much, but still more than enough.

Sherlock stared long and hard at the picture. Though her eyes were hidden behind a chunky pair of glasses, he recognized them.

He gave a nod, and Mr. Doyle closed the file and held it out to him. Sherlock took it and offered him a hand to shake, plus a check to cover double the cost of any expenses and his fees. "Thank you."

"Pleasure doing business with you Mr. Holmes."

He watched Mr. Doyle turn and leave. Watched the door shut behind him. A grin split across his face.

He'd found her.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

Even with her identity, he still didn't know how to meet her. He wanted to. He wanted to shake her hand and thank her. But it was mad. It had been months after all. What if she'd forgotten? He would just be a stranger, thanking her for nothing.

He shook his head. That was ridiculous. Surely no one could forget saving another person's life.

Still, he held back. He did a little digging of his own, doing smaller things, rather than meeting her outright, until he could think of a proper means of repaying her.

When he discovered a substantial amount of debt in her name, courtesy of her schooling, he had the loans paid off in full, as well as putting forth several thousand pounds towards the school itself and ensuring that she would be set for any other classes she might take.

He also donated several thousand pounds to Saint Bartholomew's to replace any damaged equipment and to finance the hospital. He made it anonymously, though the chairman requested otherwise.

Just little things, to him. Money meant little. Yes, it had bought him drugs and women and booze, but it hadn't gotten him anything meaningful. Now, it could be put to good use.

"Sherlock, you've zoned out again."

Sherlock's head rose and he let out a hum at John, his friend of several years, and one of the few people who didn't think he was an absolute loon for his actions. After all, he'd come back from a war and had managed to settle down, get married, and have a child. He understood what a life-changing event could do to a man.

And yet, he had a worried expression on his face.

"You were thinking about her again, weren't you?"

Sherlock shrugged in answer.

"Why don't you just go talk to her? You've been her bloody guardian angel for the last month, and you've wanted to know her longer than that." John's tone held an accusatory note.

Sherlock just gave another shrug. "It's not as easy as that, John."

"Why bloody not?"

Sherlock frowned. When he didn't respond, John just rolled his eyes and stood. "Just get in contact with her, you twit. It'll make things easier on both of you, because surely she wants to know who's been helping her out just as much as you want to know the person who saved you."

John left then, allowing him to stew on that thought. As if he wasn't already.

John was right. It would be easier. And nothing was holding him back but himself. Truth be told, he was… afraid. Afraid because he had never done anything good for the world and this stranger had saved his life, expecting nothing in return. What could he offer a person like that?

… … … … … … … … … … …

Choosing the time and place for their meeting was eventually taken out of his hands.

A knock on the door of his office at work marked the change. He looked up from his work, and called out, "Come in," expecting his secretary.

Technically, it  _was_  her. With a guest.

Molly stepped into the room, gave the secretary a nod of thanks, and the door was shut.

Both stared at the other for several long minutes.

It was Molly who closed the distance in the end. She approached the desk, and sat down in the seat across from him. Her bag went to the floor, her hands to her lap, and she asked, with only a hint of nervousness in her voice, "Why?"

Sherlock's lips felt dry. "Why?" he repeated the word.

He saw a flash of confusion, and maybe a bit of embarrassment. "Sorry, I must have made a mistake…"

She got up in a hurry, but Sherlock rose with her. She froze, like a deer in the headlights, her wide brown eyes staring at him.

"Because, Miss Hooper, you gave me my life. And I had… have a debt to repay. Please, sit back down."

Slowly, she lowered herself back into the seat, and he did the same.

"You… paid for my schooling, and all the money you donated to Bart's… I heard my supervisor discussing plans for new equipment thanks to the donation… I don't understand. You don't owe me anything, really."

Sherlock's smiled faded a bit. He looked at her hard. "March 14th. The accident. A woman claiming to be a pathologist stopped to help. She pressed a cloth to a dying man's forehead, and asked him to stay awake as they waited for the Emergency transportation. That was you, wasn't it?"

Molly licked her lips. She gave a small nod. "Yes…" Suddenly, her eyes lit up with recognition. He looked so much different from that man, all those month ago. "Oh My God. That was you. That radio broadcast and the television..." Her eyes drifted the scar on his hairline, and Sherlock calmly lifted his hair to reveal its entirety.

She swallowed slightly. "But still… why? I mean… I only did what anyone else would have done, and no one else seemed to know what to do except call the emergency number..." Her voice trailed off.

Sherlock let his hair fall back down, and offered a smile. "Because, Miss Hooper, you gave me a new life." He turned in his chair, reaching for a bottle of brandy, and two glasses. He poured one for himself, and offered her one, which she turned down. He stoppered the bottle, and put it and the second glass away. He looked down at his amber liquid as he spoke. "I used to go about life, perfectly content to have what I wanted and nothing more or less. I hadn't spoken to my family in years. Hadn't really cared for this company, though it was successful. All I cared about was what the world could give to me."

He raised his gaze to her and tipped the glass to her before finishing it off. "And then the accident. A pair of brown eyes held actual concern for a stranger's life. Someone took the time out of their busy day to save a selfish, worthless man's life and teach him a valuable lesson on what's important in that life without even meaning to."

Molly flushed and looked away from his gaze at his words.

"And the strangest part was that she never came forward. She didn't want anything for it in return, except to be able to return to her modest living, pay her debts, and continue on to… what do you want to do, Miss Hooper?"

Again, she licked her lips. They felt so dry to her now. "I… want to be a consultant for Scotland Yard. I like… finding out what happens to people, how they died… sorry, I know that's a bit morbid, but really, it's fascinating." She looked… proud. She loved her work. But there was also a wariness there, as if she had never felt safe discussing it with other people before. After all, who liked dealing with death? Not many, and certainly not this small unassuming woman, with her big eyes and soft features.

Sherlock smiled.

He knew then that she wouldn't accept anything he offered her. No amount of money or compensation. And it felt hollow, offering as much. He didn't bother even trying. Instead, he stood, rounded the desk, and offered her his hand. "I'd love to hear more about your work. There's a coffee shop, across the street. Will you join me?"

What could he offer, besides a friend? He'd only just learned the value of them himself. They were worth more than gold, in his opinion.

Molly's lips turned up in a small smile, and she nodded, taking his hand. "I'd like that, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock."

Her smile grew. "Only if you call me Molly."

… … … … … … … … … … … … …

Two years later, Sherlock reminisced on the words of the old nurse who had cared for him in the hospital. He still remembered her name. Betty.

She had said that angels were watching over him the day of the accident.

Sherlock mused that there was only one Angel. She had brown eyes and brown hair and a small smile and a laugh that lit up her entire expression. When she cried, snot dribbled from her nose, and her eyes turned red and puffy. When she spoke of her work, it always brought a smile to her face. She told horribly morbid jokes at the dinner table and snored when she slept.

Now, she walked to him down a red rose petal laden isle, in a sleeveless dress that was beautiful white satin and fanned out at her waist, with lace sewn into the bodice. She cried now, as she took his hand. But her happy tears were not nearly as messy as her sad ones.

She smiled back at him as the priest said the vows.

"I do."

"I do."

"You may kiss the bride."

And he did.


End file.
